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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Fairy Tale / Folk Tale
- Published: 03/21/2023
“HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE!” I shouted into the fog.
Everywhere I looked was more sickly trees with their rotting bark practically sliding away from the tree. And then there was of course the fog, this low hanging fog that shrouds the ground and keeps me from making out anything, but the silhouettes of trees in the distance. I grab the camera that I keep strapped to me, lift it up to my eyes, and click. The flasher did nothing, but the picture was even more useless.
“I love you,” I said down to the camera in my hands, “but I would trade you in for a flashlight or a working GPS in a heartbeat.”
With nothing else to work with, I just kept walking, snapping photos here and there to see if the flasher would help me or guide someone to helping me. I was still flashing away when I thought I heard someone whisper, “Help me...”
That's when a hand grabbed my ankle and I promptly face planted. And like the genius I am I kept my arms, that held my camera, above my head to protect it instead of breaking my fall. I lifted my head and reached back to find out what tripped me. When I reached near my ankle it wasn’t a calloused hand like I thought it was, but a root. When I stood everything looked foggier. MY GLASSES! Sure enough they had fallen off. I patted the dirt and rotting leaves for my glasses for a minute hoping to god that they hadn’t broken. Eventually I found them and put them on, but one of the lenses had fallen out. I gave up on the other lens and kept walking through the fog. It was hard to tell at first with my other eye blurring half my vision, but the fog was definitely clearing. The only fog left was this thick layer covering the ground like dry ice and the trees… the trees were the most beautiful crimson color I have ever seen. From the moss growing up and down the bark to the leaves that looked like all different shades of red. Some were light like cherry soda and others were dark like blood. But the stench of death and decay was still there.
Mouth gaping and with nothing better to do I kept walking through this terribly beautiful forest that looked so much different than any I had seen in the last day, much less my whole life back in America. Looking ahead, there was a clearing with a tree that stood out over the rest of the trees in grandeur. As I crossed the clearing I began to hear a very familiar wheezing noise that got more and more pronounced.
“Curator?” I asked once in front of the tree. And to my surprise I got a chuckle back.
“What gave it away, the wheezing?”
I walked all around the tree and looked up, the curator was nowhere to be seen, yet here he is wheezes and all. So I tried some humor to hide my already peaked anxiety.
”I knew you were into the tree business curator,” I said, “but I didn’t know you could literally go into trees.”
Another chuckle. “Not inside, under.”
Like magic, the dry icelike fog I had walked through since I woke in this forest parted and I could not believe my eyes. I opened my mouth for words, but I was betrayed, leaving me only gasping for air. The curator of the forest was trapped under the tree while roots crisscrossed his limbs. The one part of him I could make out was a half smile formed by clenched teeth, his beat red face, and one glaring eye.
“It is rather nice knowing someone found me so that I don’t have to suffer this fate alone, after all we are sinners of the same kind.”
Sinners? What do you mean, I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I wanted to run so I tried. Something was holding my feet in place, not shocked into place. Roots. Tree roots were coiling around my legs and pulling me towards the ground, as I fell backwards with my arm outstretched in front of me, I closed my eyes. This can’t be happening. The air left my lungs as I hit the ground and I jolted forward to escape.
I opened my eyes, arm outstretched, and breathing heavily as if my lungs still had no air in them. There is no longer a forest, but a stranger's home. That's right, I am not at home, but I am safe. I remember why I am here. I look around the room at its peeling paint and uneven floor boards. Safe, but still lost.
And that is when the wooden bed frame, of course it was made out of wood, promptly collapsed with me still on top. One more broken thing to explain to the curator. I am tired of curses, I am tired of the curator, and I am tired of waiting for my broken down car to get fixed so I can leave this cursed forest.
*****
“WHY!” I slammed my fist against the dash. Oh wait this is a rental car… oops. I looked back down at the GPS. Yep, it still says I am doing donuts in the middle of nowhere. I look out the window at the most opaque fog I have ever seen, which is why I can barely see the road, even with the low beams on. I heard that there are sometimes fogs near the sea in the UK, but I didn’t expect something like this, nor did I suspect that the GPS in this car would be faulty. “I guess I will just have to leave a bad review.”
I take a split second to look down at my camera sitting in the passenger seat. I had planned to take some photos of the coastal region while I was here on my study abroad trip. I would have turned back by now if it wasn’t for this GPS causing me to drive around aimlessly for the past couple of hours. If I could just find someone to help me with directions maybe.
“Ding!”
I got startled by a red warning, low gas. “Is there any way to give a review lower than a one star?” I looked up at a square outline rushing towards me and just enough time to slam on the break to avoid it. It was a red van with its tail lights not on, WHO DOES THAT ON A ROAD! I grabbed my camera and lifted the strap over my head. Time to vent and get directions. I hopped out of the rental and slammed the door shut to announce myself to anyone in the van. When I got up to their window no one. I looked at the side of the van and realized who the driver was, they were a postman. It was still strange getting used to the differences here in the UK. The language might be the same, but there are different customs like red mail trucks and driving on the left side of the road.
Letting out a huff I looked around. If it wasn’t for my headlights still being on I wouldn’t have noticed the gravel road the postal truck stopped in front of or the splintered and broken mailbox next to the road.
“So that's where you went.” I went back to my car with some understanding, the postman must have had the same problem as me. I turned the car off and popped the trunk, bingo! I placed two hazard triangles a few meters behind my car, another difference from America. With that I headed in the direction the gravel road went. A few times I found myself stepping off the gravel road despite feeling like I was walking straight. It took a few minutes, but I finally started to see the outline of a large house with a shed, heavy equipment, and piles of lumber next to it. The closer I got the more I could make out and the more I could smell. I lifted my hand to my nose and gagged on the smell of rotting wood. The house itself had paint peeling everywhere and in some spots it was missing boards on the walls. By the time I got to the porch I felt nauseous from the smell. Without thinking I grabbed the hand rail, which had no paint on it and felt soft from being moist. I had to step over one broken set of the stairs and multiple pockmarks and holes lined the porch. I knocked on the door and waited there gasping with my shirt over my nose.
It took a minute, but I heard foot falls and heavy wheezing of the owner. The door swung open, and I looked down at a small man with frayed white hair and one eye wider than the other. If the man wore a lab coat, I could have mistaken him for a mad scientist. He stared up at me, wheezing, with no “Hello.” or “who are you?” I began to feel unnerved by his stare, so I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “YOUR MAILBOX IS BROKEN!”
His right eye widened even more, “I FIXED THAT THING THIS MORNING!” I let out a breath, for a moment I thought he was going to accuse me of breaking it so I quickly changed the subject. “I saw a postal truck, have you seen a postman?” He shook his head, “No, in fact I don’t see many people out this way.”
That's weird, why was there a postman's truck on the road then?
“Look, my name is McCarthy, I was visiting the country and got lost in the fog. Do you think I could call someone to come out and get me gas? I can’t keep driving in this fog without some help, so could I use your phone?”
His right eye stayed wide, but his left one squinted looking me up and down. So that eye can move too.
“Sure you can use my landline, but I am guessing you aren’t from here based on your American accent. If you want to call a local mechanic to bring gas you will have to wait till tomorrow since it is getting late. I would consider letting you stay the night, after all this place used to house a lot of lumber workers back in the day.”
“That really won’t be necessary.” I replied hastily.
“Oh, but I insist there is just one thing we need to discuss beforehand.”
“And what is that?”
“Payment my boy! Ten euros upfront and you can have a room upstairs.”
I almost can’t tell if he is joking with me or if he is just desperate because ten euros is basically ten dollars. “You drive a hard bargain Mr… what's your name?”
“You can call me curator.”
“Alright curator, you drive a hard bargain, but I could really use a place to stay.” I dug out ten euros from my pocket and handed it over. “Come on in, the land line is to the left in the kitchen.” He walked away going into the room on the right, floor boards creaking the whole way. I had been so focused on the curator that I didn’t realize the state his home was in. Like a lot of entrances I have seen in the UK, there was a thin hallway with, presumably, a kitchen to the left and a living room to the right, while a set of stairs leads up to a second floor. But if I thought the outside of the house was a mess then this was a disaster. There was a series of patchwork that could be seen everywhere, thin boards trying to cover holes or gaping cracks. “What have I gotten myself into?” I said out loud.
*****
I walked into the living room to find the curator rocking in a chair, just a normal old chair missing a front and a back leg, after I had finished arguing with a mechanic over a call. I called just in time for him to be getting off work it seems. “I am guessing this place has seen better days.”
He replied with a wheeze and then, “this place saw better days when it still had a team of lumbermen to bring in the money.”
So that is why it is a bigger house, I thought. “That's also why this place is so hard to take care of.” he said, reading my mind. “Sit down, if you fall through the floorboards it's better for you to have a cushion beneath you.” I picked out one of the less moth eaten chairs that I could. “So you used to be a lumberman working here?” He looked startled at the question, “when did I say that. No, I was never a lumberman. I just took over this place in the aftermath of a failed lumberman company.” He frowned, "and if you believe in the story they say the lumbermen released a curse from the forest.”
“They?” I asked
He rolled his eyes “They, as in me.” He took a moment to wheeze and then continued “When I took over this land I was told some hogwash about a curse, a businessman saw profit in this land despite its look. He brought a team of lumbermen and built this place from the same forest, bloodwood forest they called it. It wasn’t always called that, but that's what the lumbermen started calling it when other lumbermen started going too far in and getting lost. One of the men came out mumbling that and just left, left without saying any other word, which only solidified the name and scared the men. Well, one morning the business man and his employees gathered around the edge of the forest when they heard screaming in the woods. Mind you this place has always been foggy for some reason so you can see why everyone hesitated to run in head first, but the real reason was the curse. In the end, all but one man decided to go and help the man. The man waited for the rest to come back, but no one did. He waited all day, and part of the next, but he never heard nor saw the others. He had all but given up when one of the men came out, it was the businessman.
The curator paused for a moment to continue his fit of wheezing. “When the lumberman asked what happened to the others the man just had a blank stare and told the lumberman they found the man shouting for help, but when they got to him he was under a tree, being slowly crushed. But the weirdest part, he looked almost like a mummy, like he had been sucked dry. He said he was so spooked that he turned around and ran back to the house but got lost wandering the woods.”
“So, what happened to the other lumbermen?” I asked. “So, you believe this old folktale of mine,” he laughed, “No one knows, I guess they all got lost in the woods and couldn’t get out, or maybe the trees GOT THEM!” He lunged towards me making me jump, when I composed myself, I looked over at him to see him coughing between giggles. “That's enough campfire stories, I’m going to bed, you can have any of the ones upstairs since no one is using them anymore.” And with that he hobbled off leaving me with my own thoughts. One that came to mind was that if his story is true, which I doubt it is, I will be sleeping in a dead man's bed tonight.
*****
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, it wasn’t from heat, but between the fog and the nightmare I just woke up from. I hoped that I could avoid the curator, but didn’t have high hopes as the stairs creaked on my way down. I looked left then right. no curator, must not be a morning person. With that in mind I made my way over to the door. I stepped outside and scoffed, I saw the fog out my window upstairs, but still can’t believe it hasn’t dissipated.
“HELP!” I turned to the corner of the house and ran around the side. “HELP!” It sounded like the curator and it was coming from the woods. I kept running till I got to the edge of the woods and gagged as the rotting smell I had been getting accustomed to intensified.
I cupped my hands over my mouth and shouted, “Curator, over here! The house is over here!”
“PLEASE HELP, MCCARTHY!” I thought maybe he got lost in the woods, but he must have gotten hurt. I hesitated before crossing the threshold between safety and the curse. I gritted my teeth thinking about the curator's story. FAKE, McCarthy, he made it up! I ran into the forest, telling the Curator to keep shouting so I could find him.
“Over here McCarthy,” to my left. “I am over here,” this time it sounded to my right.
Every time he shouted back he sounded further away, closer, in another direction. It was almost like the curator was running circles around me, I lost track of my directions so quickly I couldn’t tell which direction the house was in.
“You know McCarthy, I might have left a few important details out of my story last night.” I turned around and there was the Curator's silhouette in the fog. It looked like there was something in his hand. “The man who came out of the forest saw some messed up shit that didn’t make sense, but he got out by making a deal with the forest. Bring sacrifices to quench the wrong humans have brought nature. The lumberman who waited for the others was the first sacrifice he offered to the forest. And I am that man.” he lifted an axe over his head.
I didn’t scream, I didn’t put my fists up to defend myself against this crazy man. I turned around and I ran. I didn’t turn to look behind me, but I could tell the Curator hadn’t followed because I would have heard him.
This is just like my nightmare, I really am going to die. NO! I felt another burst of speed. This forest can’t go on forever, I will find a way out, I will go back home, and I will have this man arrested.
You enter the fog and you lose your way home, you enter the dead forest and you lose your sense of reality, you enter the bloody forest and you lose your life.
I almost stopped running. I didn’t think that, it was as if someone was trying to tell me something in my head. It wasn’t the curator, but a deep and raspy voice.
Revenge……………..Sacrifice……………….Nutrients……………….Death...…………….
Die……………….Lost...…………….Helpless...…………….Alone...…………….Futile...…………….Enemy...…………….Pain...…….Sorrow...…………….Decay...…………….Polluted….
REVENGE…………….
REVENGE…………….
REVENGE…………….
I can’t stand hearing this voice anymore, I shut my eyes. That was the biggest, most fatal mistake I could have made. I slammed right into a tree, hard. I fell to the ground feeling disoriented. When I opened my eyes despite everything being blurry, I knew what I was looking at because I saw it in a nightmare. The most red and beautiful tree that ever existed. My head fell to the side as I knew there was no escaping, but the last clear thing I could make out was a bag. There was a postal bag sitting under another bright red tree, with a skeletal hand clasping it.
“Someone help m-...”
Bloodwood Forest(Dominic Murray)
“HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE!” I shouted into the fog.
Everywhere I looked was more sickly trees with their rotting bark practically sliding away from the tree. And then there was of course the fog, this low hanging fog that shrouds the ground and keeps me from making out anything, but the silhouettes of trees in the distance. I grab the camera that I keep strapped to me, lift it up to my eyes, and click. The flasher did nothing, but the picture was even more useless.
“I love you,” I said down to the camera in my hands, “but I would trade you in for a flashlight or a working GPS in a heartbeat.”
With nothing else to work with, I just kept walking, snapping photos here and there to see if the flasher would help me or guide someone to helping me. I was still flashing away when I thought I heard someone whisper, “Help me...”
That's when a hand grabbed my ankle and I promptly face planted. And like the genius I am I kept my arms, that held my camera, above my head to protect it instead of breaking my fall. I lifted my head and reached back to find out what tripped me. When I reached near my ankle it wasn’t a calloused hand like I thought it was, but a root. When I stood everything looked foggier. MY GLASSES! Sure enough they had fallen off. I patted the dirt and rotting leaves for my glasses for a minute hoping to god that they hadn’t broken. Eventually I found them and put them on, but one of the lenses had fallen out. I gave up on the other lens and kept walking through the fog. It was hard to tell at first with my other eye blurring half my vision, but the fog was definitely clearing. The only fog left was this thick layer covering the ground like dry ice and the trees… the trees were the most beautiful crimson color I have ever seen. From the moss growing up and down the bark to the leaves that looked like all different shades of red. Some were light like cherry soda and others were dark like blood. But the stench of death and decay was still there.
Mouth gaping and with nothing better to do I kept walking through this terribly beautiful forest that looked so much different than any I had seen in the last day, much less my whole life back in America. Looking ahead, there was a clearing with a tree that stood out over the rest of the trees in grandeur. As I crossed the clearing I began to hear a very familiar wheezing noise that got more and more pronounced.
“Curator?” I asked once in front of the tree. And to my surprise I got a chuckle back.
“What gave it away, the wheezing?”
I walked all around the tree and looked up, the curator was nowhere to be seen, yet here he is wheezes and all. So I tried some humor to hide my already peaked anxiety.
”I knew you were into the tree business curator,” I said, “but I didn’t know you could literally go into trees.”
Another chuckle. “Not inside, under.”
Like magic, the dry icelike fog I had walked through since I woke in this forest parted and I could not believe my eyes. I opened my mouth for words, but I was betrayed, leaving me only gasping for air. The curator of the forest was trapped under the tree while roots crisscrossed his limbs. The one part of him I could make out was a half smile formed by clenched teeth, his beat red face, and one glaring eye.
“It is rather nice knowing someone found me so that I don’t have to suffer this fate alone, after all we are sinners of the same kind.”
Sinners? What do you mean, I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I wanted to run so I tried. Something was holding my feet in place, not shocked into place. Roots. Tree roots were coiling around my legs and pulling me towards the ground, as I fell backwards with my arm outstretched in front of me, I closed my eyes. This can’t be happening. The air left my lungs as I hit the ground and I jolted forward to escape.
I opened my eyes, arm outstretched, and breathing heavily as if my lungs still had no air in them. There is no longer a forest, but a stranger's home. That's right, I am not at home, but I am safe. I remember why I am here. I look around the room at its peeling paint and uneven floor boards. Safe, but still lost.
And that is when the wooden bed frame, of course it was made out of wood, promptly collapsed with me still on top. One more broken thing to explain to the curator. I am tired of curses, I am tired of the curator, and I am tired of waiting for my broken down car to get fixed so I can leave this cursed forest.
*****
“WHY!” I slammed my fist against the dash. Oh wait this is a rental car… oops. I looked back down at the GPS. Yep, it still says I am doing donuts in the middle of nowhere. I look out the window at the most opaque fog I have ever seen, which is why I can barely see the road, even with the low beams on. I heard that there are sometimes fogs near the sea in the UK, but I didn’t expect something like this, nor did I suspect that the GPS in this car would be faulty. “I guess I will just have to leave a bad review.”
I take a split second to look down at my camera sitting in the passenger seat. I had planned to take some photos of the coastal region while I was here on my study abroad trip. I would have turned back by now if it wasn’t for this GPS causing me to drive around aimlessly for the past couple of hours. If I could just find someone to help me with directions maybe.
“Ding!”
I got startled by a red warning, low gas. “Is there any way to give a review lower than a one star?” I looked up at a square outline rushing towards me and just enough time to slam on the break to avoid it. It was a red van with its tail lights not on, WHO DOES THAT ON A ROAD! I grabbed my camera and lifted the strap over my head. Time to vent and get directions. I hopped out of the rental and slammed the door shut to announce myself to anyone in the van. When I got up to their window no one. I looked at the side of the van and realized who the driver was, they were a postman. It was still strange getting used to the differences here in the UK. The language might be the same, but there are different customs like red mail trucks and driving on the left side of the road.
Letting out a huff I looked around. If it wasn’t for my headlights still being on I wouldn’t have noticed the gravel road the postal truck stopped in front of or the splintered and broken mailbox next to the road.
“So that's where you went.” I went back to my car with some understanding, the postman must have had the same problem as me. I turned the car off and popped the trunk, bingo! I placed two hazard triangles a few meters behind my car, another difference from America. With that I headed in the direction the gravel road went. A few times I found myself stepping off the gravel road despite feeling like I was walking straight. It took a few minutes, but I finally started to see the outline of a large house with a shed, heavy equipment, and piles of lumber next to it. The closer I got the more I could make out and the more I could smell. I lifted my hand to my nose and gagged on the smell of rotting wood. The house itself had paint peeling everywhere and in some spots it was missing boards on the walls. By the time I got to the porch I felt nauseous from the smell. Without thinking I grabbed the hand rail, which had no paint on it and felt soft from being moist. I had to step over one broken set of the stairs and multiple pockmarks and holes lined the porch. I knocked on the door and waited there gasping with my shirt over my nose.
It took a minute, but I heard foot falls and heavy wheezing of the owner. The door swung open, and I looked down at a small man with frayed white hair and one eye wider than the other. If the man wore a lab coat, I could have mistaken him for a mad scientist. He stared up at me, wheezing, with no “Hello.” or “who are you?” I began to feel unnerved by his stare, so I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “YOUR MAILBOX IS BROKEN!”
His right eye widened even more, “I FIXED THAT THING THIS MORNING!” I let out a breath, for a moment I thought he was going to accuse me of breaking it so I quickly changed the subject. “I saw a postal truck, have you seen a postman?” He shook his head, “No, in fact I don’t see many people out this way.”
That's weird, why was there a postman's truck on the road then?
“Look, my name is McCarthy, I was visiting the country and got lost in the fog. Do you think I could call someone to come out and get me gas? I can’t keep driving in this fog without some help, so could I use your phone?”
His right eye stayed wide, but his left one squinted looking me up and down. So that eye can move too.
“Sure you can use my landline, but I am guessing you aren’t from here based on your American accent. If you want to call a local mechanic to bring gas you will have to wait till tomorrow since it is getting late. I would consider letting you stay the night, after all this place used to house a lot of lumber workers back in the day.”
“That really won’t be necessary.” I replied hastily.
“Oh, but I insist there is just one thing we need to discuss beforehand.”
“And what is that?”
“Payment my boy! Ten euros upfront and you can have a room upstairs.”
I almost can’t tell if he is joking with me or if he is just desperate because ten euros is basically ten dollars. “You drive a hard bargain Mr… what's your name?”
“You can call me curator.”
“Alright curator, you drive a hard bargain, but I could really use a place to stay.” I dug out ten euros from my pocket and handed it over. “Come on in, the land line is to the left in the kitchen.” He walked away going into the room on the right, floor boards creaking the whole way. I had been so focused on the curator that I didn’t realize the state his home was in. Like a lot of entrances I have seen in the UK, there was a thin hallway with, presumably, a kitchen to the left and a living room to the right, while a set of stairs leads up to a second floor. But if I thought the outside of the house was a mess then this was a disaster. There was a series of patchwork that could be seen everywhere, thin boards trying to cover holes or gaping cracks. “What have I gotten myself into?” I said out loud.
*****
I walked into the living room to find the curator rocking in a chair, just a normal old chair missing a front and a back leg, after I had finished arguing with a mechanic over a call. I called just in time for him to be getting off work it seems. “I am guessing this place has seen better days.”
He replied with a wheeze and then, “this place saw better days when it still had a team of lumbermen to bring in the money.”
So that is why it is a bigger house, I thought. “That's also why this place is so hard to take care of.” he said, reading my mind. “Sit down, if you fall through the floorboards it's better for you to have a cushion beneath you.” I picked out one of the less moth eaten chairs that I could. “So you used to be a lumberman working here?” He looked startled at the question, “when did I say that. No, I was never a lumberman. I just took over this place in the aftermath of a failed lumberman company.” He frowned, "and if you believe in the story they say the lumbermen released a curse from the forest.”
“They?” I asked
He rolled his eyes “They, as in me.” He took a moment to wheeze and then continued “When I took over this land I was told some hogwash about a curse, a businessman saw profit in this land despite its look. He brought a team of lumbermen and built this place from the same forest, bloodwood forest they called it. It wasn’t always called that, but that's what the lumbermen started calling it when other lumbermen started going too far in and getting lost. One of the men came out mumbling that and just left, left without saying any other word, which only solidified the name and scared the men. Well, one morning the business man and his employees gathered around the edge of the forest when they heard screaming in the woods. Mind you this place has always been foggy for some reason so you can see why everyone hesitated to run in head first, but the real reason was the curse. In the end, all but one man decided to go and help the man. The man waited for the rest to come back, but no one did. He waited all day, and part of the next, but he never heard nor saw the others. He had all but given up when one of the men came out, it was the businessman.
The curator paused for a moment to continue his fit of wheezing. “When the lumberman asked what happened to the others the man just had a blank stare and told the lumberman they found the man shouting for help, but when they got to him he was under a tree, being slowly crushed. But the weirdest part, he looked almost like a mummy, like he had been sucked dry. He said he was so spooked that he turned around and ran back to the house but got lost wandering the woods.”
“So, what happened to the other lumbermen?” I asked. “So, you believe this old folktale of mine,” he laughed, “No one knows, I guess they all got lost in the woods and couldn’t get out, or maybe the trees GOT THEM!” He lunged towards me making me jump, when I composed myself, I looked over at him to see him coughing between giggles. “That's enough campfire stories, I’m going to bed, you can have any of the ones upstairs since no one is using them anymore.” And with that he hobbled off leaving me with my own thoughts. One that came to mind was that if his story is true, which I doubt it is, I will be sleeping in a dead man's bed tonight.
*****
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, it wasn’t from heat, but between the fog and the nightmare I just woke up from. I hoped that I could avoid the curator, but didn’t have high hopes as the stairs creaked on my way down. I looked left then right. no curator, must not be a morning person. With that in mind I made my way over to the door. I stepped outside and scoffed, I saw the fog out my window upstairs, but still can’t believe it hasn’t dissipated.
“HELP!” I turned to the corner of the house and ran around the side. “HELP!” It sounded like the curator and it was coming from the woods. I kept running till I got to the edge of the woods and gagged as the rotting smell I had been getting accustomed to intensified.
I cupped my hands over my mouth and shouted, “Curator, over here! The house is over here!”
“PLEASE HELP, MCCARTHY!” I thought maybe he got lost in the woods, but he must have gotten hurt. I hesitated before crossing the threshold between safety and the curse. I gritted my teeth thinking about the curator's story. FAKE, McCarthy, he made it up! I ran into the forest, telling the Curator to keep shouting so I could find him.
“Over here McCarthy,” to my left. “I am over here,” this time it sounded to my right.
Every time he shouted back he sounded further away, closer, in another direction. It was almost like the curator was running circles around me, I lost track of my directions so quickly I couldn’t tell which direction the house was in.
“You know McCarthy, I might have left a few important details out of my story last night.” I turned around and there was the Curator's silhouette in the fog. It looked like there was something in his hand. “The man who came out of the forest saw some messed up shit that didn’t make sense, but he got out by making a deal with the forest. Bring sacrifices to quench the wrong humans have brought nature. The lumberman who waited for the others was the first sacrifice he offered to the forest. And I am that man.” he lifted an axe over his head.
I didn’t scream, I didn’t put my fists up to defend myself against this crazy man. I turned around and I ran. I didn’t turn to look behind me, but I could tell the Curator hadn’t followed because I would have heard him.
This is just like my nightmare, I really am going to die. NO! I felt another burst of speed. This forest can’t go on forever, I will find a way out, I will go back home, and I will have this man arrested.
You enter the fog and you lose your way home, you enter the dead forest and you lose your sense of reality, you enter the bloody forest and you lose your life.
I almost stopped running. I didn’t think that, it was as if someone was trying to tell me something in my head. It wasn’t the curator, but a deep and raspy voice.
Revenge……………..Sacrifice……………….Nutrients……………….Death...…………….
Die……………….Lost...…………….Helpless...…………….Alone...…………….Futile...…………….Enemy...…………….Pain...…….Sorrow...…………….Decay...…………….Polluted….
REVENGE…………….
REVENGE…………….
REVENGE…………….
I can’t stand hearing this voice anymore, I shut my eyes. That was the biggest, most fatal mistake I could have made. I slammed right into a tree, hard. I fell to the ground feeling disoriented. When I opened my eyes despite everything being blurry, I knew what I was looking at because I saw it in a nightmare. The most red and beautiful tree that ever existed. My head fell to the side as I knew there was no escaping, but the last clear thing I could make out was a bag. There was a postal bag sitting under another bright red tree, with a skeletal hand clasping it.
“Someone help m-...”
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Shirley Smothers
03/25/2023Yikes! Loved this well crafted story. Scarry and tense. Congratulations!
You made my heart race.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Shelly Garrod
03/25/2023Wow! that was a creepy, eerie and suspenseful story Dominic. Fantastic writing. Congratulations on being Short Story Star of the Day!
Blessings, Shelly
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Lillian Kazmierczak
03/25/2023That was terrific! Great description and tension I had to finish it! Terrific writing! Congratulations on short story star of the day!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Joseth Moore
03/21/2023Good job, A) Well-written story, B) writing it STRUCTURALLY-well (i cannot tell you how many indie-authors i've read & you can tell they need some guidance with punctuations, etc) C) just PUBLISHING your story, especially! THIS is the biggest issue i stress to a lot of young writers that i run into in the physical world OR in the cyber-realm: great to have ideas BUT one must put concept to paper &/OR electronically as an ebook!
~jm (Joey from work!)
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